


What Fine Marble

by plutonianshores



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, Bleeding, Choking on dick, Cock Slapping, Face-Fucking, Gang Rape, M/M, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, Unaroused Victim, Unhappy Ending, forced to fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/pseuds/plutonianshores
Summary: The June Rebellion ends somewhat differently
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/The National Guard
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	What Fine Marble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancslove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/gifts).



Enjolras had expected to die. He’d accepted death. What was his own end in the face of injustice? He hadn’t been prepared for the guardsman looking at him over the barrel of his rifle to grin when Enjolras invited him to shoot and gesture for his comrades to grab hold of Enjolras instead.

The man grabbed him by the jaw, turning his face to the side. "I’ve heard of you. The angel of the barricades. Far too fine a face to waste with a firing squad."

Enjolras spat at him, which earned him a backhand to the cheek. That would bruise, a distant part of him noted.

"Bring the prisoners in," the man called, and that made Enjolras’s heart jump. He’d thought everyone dead, though he wasn’t sure whatever the Guard had planned was better than death in battle. "And grab that idiot too," the soldier added, waving to a table where a man – Grantaire, Enjolras realized, sleeping through the culmination of their years of work.

Grantaire was hauled to the wall, hands bound with rope, as were the prisoners that the soldiers dragged in. Enjolras had prepared for death, his comrades’ as well as his own, but he couldn’t help the relief at every familiar face who was dragged through the door. It didn’t occur to him until later that an audience was being gathered. Everyone was there – bleeding, bruised, and some drifting in and out of consciousness, but all alive.

The soldier hooked his fingers through Enjolras’s cravat, pulling their faces close together. "It would be a shame to let such a pretty face go to waste."

The purpose for this gathering of prisoners began to make a disturbing sense. Enjolras struggled to get away, but he was exhausted from days of fighting and the man’s grip was too strong. He shoved Enjolras to his knees, wrapping one hand in Enjolras’ hair. "Let’s put this mouth to better use."

"Don’t let him bite you," another man said.

The soldier nodded to his compatriot. "Behave," he said to Enjolras, tightening his finger in his hair. "Every time I feel even a hint of teeth, we shoot one of your friends."

Enjolras had gone into this fight willing to see himself and his comrades die. But that was for a cause, not in service of some bastard’s foul attempt at humiliation. He opened his mouth, glaring at the soldier.

The man forced his prick into Enjolras’ mouth with no warning, hitting the back of his throat and making him gag. Enjolras nearly bit down instinctively. He held his friends’ faces in his mind, forcing himself to keep his jaw wide and let the man plunder his mouth.

"Get it good and wet," the soldier said, his thumb tracing over the bone of Enjolras’ cheek. "You’ll want that when I fuck you."

Enjolras would kill this man. When this was over, he would kill them all. He shut his eyes and remembered the consequences of refusing to cooperate. That might have been a poor strategy. His world was narrowed to the prick in his mouth, the jeers of the soldiers, and the stifled noises of his friends. He could have managed if he were alone, or if this bastard had brought a few of his fellow soldiers along to watch. But this was everyone he’d fought against, and worse, everyone he’d fought _with_ and _for_. For his friends to see him like this, humiliated and defiled – he’d never be able to face them again.

Enjolras’ jaw ached from the effort of holding it wide ( _Behave_ echoed in his head) and he’d begun to drool, saliva coating his face and the soldier’s prick. He hated to think of how he must look, debased and filthy, but he hoped this would help with the...the penetration. His mind stuttered on the word, too clinical and prudish for what was being done to him. The fucking, perhaps, but surely this was _already_ fucking, his mouth held wide and his throat abused. He could return to Latin, which had a vulgarity for every possible act –

The soldier forced himself further down Enjolras’ throat, cutting off his breath. Enjolras screamed, trying to struggle, but that only made his assailant moan in pleasure.

"That’s more like it," he said, using his hold on Enjolras’ hair to force his head back and forth with his own thrusts.

If Enjolras gave himself in to the movements and relaxed, he could breathe through his nose. He couldn’t keep from choking and gasping around the prick in his throat, and the soldier’s murmured compliments whenever his throat clenched made his skin crawl, but he could at least breathe.

The soldier pulled his prick from Enjolras’ mouth, pulling Enjolras by the hair into standing. "Clothes off."

If looks could kill, Enjolras could have destroyed this entire room with a single glare. He untucked his shirt from his trousers (he’d long ago lost his waistcoat), ashamed of the way his hands shook.

"Faster," the man snapped, but Enjolras couldn’t make his hands cooperate. They had been nothing but steady on the trigger of his musket, but here they betrayed him. His assailant lost patience, stepping towards Enjolras and making him (involuntarily, shamefully) flinch away. But he was only looking over Enjolras’ shoulder at one of his brothers in arms.

"Fabien, get those clothes off of him. He’s useless on his own."

A red-haired man stepped forward from the throng, grabbing Enjolras by the shoulders. "I know you want him first, Roche, but will the rest of us get a go?"

"Of course," his assailant – _Roche_ , Enjolras would commit these names and faces to memory and make them _pay_ – said, hand lazily fondling his now-spit-slick prick. "It would be a shame to let a face like this go to waste."

Fabien tore at Enjolras’ clothes, buttons flying off and fabric fraying. Enjolras’ shirt was flung to the side, his trousers left pooled around his boots. Enjolras’ chest pricked with anger at the humiliation of being left like a child prepared for a caning, but then Fabien wrapped his arms around Enjolras’ chest and lifted him off the ground, calling for someone to come and get his boots off.

Enjolras’ face burned hot, and he knew he must have looked bright scarlet. He could face the pain, and he was beginning to come to terms with the humiliation. It was the sheer impotence of his position that ached in his gut, being slung around like a toy and displayed to the gathered crowd.

"He’s like a statue," Fabien said, forcing Enjolras to bare his chest to the soldiers. He pinched a nipple, making Enjolras gasp. "All marble skin and fierce expression."

"I wouldn’t mind fine art if more of it looked like that," someone shouted.

"All right, enough admiration. Let’s see how he performs." Roche gestured for Fabien to bring Enjolras to a table. Fabien shoved him down onto it face-first, but Roche stepped forward to tap Enjolras’ hip.

"Turn over," he said. "I want to see your face while I have you."

Enjolras obeyed, picturing his friends walking free at the end of this, picturing himself blowing a hole in Roche’s temple. Roche spread Enjolras’ legs, far enough that Enjolras’ hips ached. This would have been easier with his face to the table, looking at the grain of the wood instead of Roche’s grin looming over him.

Roche didn’t give Enjolras any warning before spreading his arse and sliding his prick in. Enjolras hadn’t expected gentleness, he’d seen what Roche did with his mouth, but even just the tip of Roche’s prick made pain ripple through his guts. This would go better if he relaxed, he knew enough about sodomy to know that, but he couldn’t stop tensing away from the intrusion.

"God, you’re tight." Roche slid further in, grunting as Enjolras clenched around him. "You a virgin? I would’ve thought your little gang of soldiers had all had you by now."

"Leave them out of this," Enjolras said through clenched teeth. A mistake, he knew, to provoke this man, but he wanted them out of this bastard’s mouth, out of his twisting of words that made their mission seem sordid.

"We already know some of them are sodomites," Roche said, lips pressed to the shell of Enjolras’ ear. Enjolras prayed that no one would mistake the fury on his face for disgust, especially the soldiers’ captive audience of his friends. "I’d assumed you would be too. Ah, well, we’ll just have to make up for lost time."

The ache unfurled into a sharp pain as Roche’s hips came flush with Enjolras’ arse. Enjolras did his best to relax, breathing in short shallow gasps. He wouldn’t give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing him beg.

Roche began to thrust, hauling Enjolras’ hips off the table. Just sitting still, he’d been nearly unmanageable. Moving, Enjolras was sure Roche would tear him apart. He felt something tear, and then something hot and wet dripped down his legs. He bit his lip to keep from screaming.

Roche ran his fingers through the blood, probing at the point where his prick entered Enjolras. "Nothing like a virgin."

"For God’s sake, stop!" someone screamed from the sidelines. It took Enjolras a moment to place the voice – Grantaire, words slurred and voice cracking. Of all of the people to say something, Enjolras hadn’t expected Grantaire. He winced as he heard the smack of skin against skin, and Grantaire’s muffled cry of pain.

"Shut up," a soldier said, but Roche held up a hand.

"I think he’s jealous," Roche said, grinning sharp and cruel. "Should we let him have the next go?"

"No," Grantaire said, barely audible, "I didn’t want…"

"It’s settled, then." Roche returned his attentions to Enjolras. "And don’t complain, Fabien, you can have him third."

Roche’s thrusts grew even more brutal, trying to make some disgusting point. Enjolras couldn’t hold back his cries any longer. Every involuntary clench at Roche’s movements tore at the wound again, sluggish drops of blood crawling towards the table. Enjolras lay limp, trying to let the pain wash over him until Roche finished this. He pushed the line of soldiers waiting for their ‘go’ at him out of his mind. All he had to do was survive this. Roche couldn’t last forever. With the way he was enjoying this, he would have to spend soon.

"Put some effort into it," Roche snapped, tugging Enjolras’ hair. "Get one cock in you and you’re already loose."

Even if Enjolras had wanted to cooperate, he wouldn’t have been able to. Any attempts to move sent him reeling with pain. _Please, please,_ he thought, to who knew what audience, _just finish this_ _and move on._

Roche looked over him appraisingly, and without warning slapped Enjolras’ prick. Enjolras howled, but the bastard got what he wanted, because he couldn’t help but tense up at the pain. It went on like that for far longer than Enjolras would have thought possible, Roche raining blows down on Enjolras’ prick whenever he went limp with the pain. At some point, he didn’t remember when, Enjolras had begun to cry. Roche made sure to point that out to his audience, tracing a finger through the tears pooling on Enjolras’ cheeks.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "You really are a piece of art."

 _Best to be looked at_ , Enjolras thought bitterly, _trapped away from his life’s work_. This wasn’t even the worst part of the day’s events, he wasn’t sure why these particular words of Roche’s dug the deepest into him.

Finally, _finally_ , Roche finished. He pulled out of Enjolras abruptly, leaving a tacky mess of blood and spend behind. "Very good." He patted Enjolras on the head. "Now, let’s show your friend a good time."

Someone dragged Grantaire over, shoving him in front of Enjolras.

"Have at it," Roche said, patting Grantaire on the shoulder.

"Please!" Grantaire said plaintively, looking between Roche and Enjolras in abject horror.

"If you’ve changed your mind, I’m happy to give you an alternative." There was that grin again. Enjolras wanted so badly to punch it off of Roche’s face. "You can be the one to put him down when we’re finished with him."

Grantaire shook his head, opening and closing his mouth, silent. That was something, a distant part of Enjolras noted, to see Grantaire at a loss for words. Grantaire’s jaw clenched as he began to undo his trousers.

"And make it good," Roche said. "If you don’t prove entertaining, I may reconsider my offer."

Grantaire hesitantly took himself in hand, staring at Enjolras like his entire world was ending.

"Just do it," Enjolras snapped. "You can’t be worse than him."

Grantaire began to enter Enjolras, stopping when Enjolras let out a hiss of pain.

"Do it," Enjolras said again, teeth clenched. "Hesitation will be worse."

That spurred Grantaire to action. He thrust into Enjolras, his face a mask of pain. You’d think _he_ was the one being fucked, Enjolras thought. Grantaire shut his eyes, leaning forward and mumbling, "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry."

Roche nudged the back of Grantaire’s head with his rifle. "You don’t look much like you’re enjoying this," he said, tone harsh.

Enjolras pulled Grantaire closer and kissed him. Tried to, at least. Enjolras had no practice and Grantaire was no help, at least at first. When he got over his shock, Grantaire returned the kiss. He tasted of salt and wine, and he was scrupulously gentle.

His arse still ached, but Grantaire was a far cry from Roche.Grantaire rested his hands carefully on Enjolras’ hips, and his breath stuttered as Enjolras unconsciously clenched at the touch. He began to speak, undoubtedly intending to apologize to him, but Enjolras silenced him with a kiss.

Enjolras focused on Grantaire, trying to ignore the jeers from the soldiers and the stifled sounds from his friends. He could see every freckle and broken vein on Grantaire’s face, every flutter of his eyelids. It was too much, too close – Enjolras wanted this _over_. He tightened around Grantaire again, ignoring the twinges of pain. Grantaire gasped, hands tightening on Enjolras’ hips, and murmured Enjolras’ name as he spent.

Enjolras knew he would remember that. Every time Grantaire spoke to him, he would hear the half-broken, half-satiated tone in which Grantaire had called his name. He wanted to vomit.

Someone pulled Grantaire away, the abrupt withdrawal sending a shooting pain through him. Grantaire stumbled back, falling to the ground with his prick still out.

"All right," the man – Fabien – said. "Let’s see if you were worth the wait." He grabbed Enjolras by the hips and flipped him over, slamming himpunishingly hard on the table.

His first thrust into Enjolras was smoothed by the spend Enjolras could feel dripping out of him. Fabien got one hand in his hair, pulling until Enjolras yelped in pain. That must have been what Fabien wanted, because he moaned in pleasure and hastened his thrusts.

Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes. It would look too much like pleasure to these bastards, and he wanted to remember every face currently jeering at him. But all he could focus on was his friends, watching him in various states of injury, eight masks of misery looking at him.

Prouvaire, blood streaked down his face from a graze on his temple, was crying, mouthing something Enjolras couldn’t make out. Bahorel had a deep bruise on his cheekbone and a soldier’s gun nestled against his chin, and that gun seemed to be the only thing keeping him from beating Fabien to a pulp. Enjolras had to look down, following the line of boots against the wall, counting them over and over. Grantaire had been dragged back to the rest, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

Fabien sank his teeth into Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras couldn’t hold back his whimper. At least the sharp pain distracted from the dull ache of Fabien using his arse. Fabien pressed a kiss to the bite when he pulled back, his lips wet.

"His mouth’s free," Fabien said, slapping Enjolras on the arse. "And we already know he won’t bite. Who’s next, lads?"

Someone stepped forward. Enjolras couldn’t see his face, only his prick, hard and already beading with fluid at the tip. He took hold of Enjolras’ jaw and Enjolras obediently opened his mouth, hating himself for it. The man gave him no time to adjust before forcing himself all the way into Enjolras’ mouth, hitting the back of his throat. Then Enjolras was pinned between the man behind him and the man before, ricocheted between their thrusts and barely managing to breathe. He was making horrible and humiliating noises, mumbling unintelligible pleas around the prick in his mouth, and that only increased their enthusiasm. Enjolras was going to die here, choking on a prick with spend dripping from his arse, with everyone he cared about watching.

The man pulled out of his mouth, and Enjolras could have shouted with relief if his voice wasn’t hoarse from the violation. He held his prick close to Enjolras’ face, stroking himself until he spent across Enjolras’ cheek. "Beautiful," he said, patting the mess he’d left behind.

Fabien took his time, but he spent eventually, inspired by his brother-in-arms to do it across the small of Enjolras’ back. Enjolras lost track of the rapes that followed, the night fading into a blur of men spending in him and on him until he had forgotten all thoughts of revenge. Once they’d taken all they wanted from him, they’d let him die. That was all he wanted, an end to this hell. He didn’t know when he’d started crying, but the soldiers took great delight in that, one of them kissing the tears from his face with no regard for the spend they mingled with.

Finally, finally, they stopped. Roche stepped forward, wrapping one hand possessively through Enjolras’ hair. Even after all this, Enjolras remembered him, felt a surge of desire to reach out and strangle him that was crushed by the fact he could barely move.

"You know," Roche said, "it would be a shame to let him go with all this training put in. We _did_ have permission to bring them in alive."

The only saving grace of this attack had been the promise of death at the end. "No," Enjolras stammered, trying to scramble away from Roche.

"Don’t worry," Roche said, a heavy hand on Enjolras’ hip holding him in place. "We’ll keep your little army around as well. Who knows what hidden talents they might have?"

Each time Enjolras thought he’d seen the worst of what these bastards were bringing to him, something more was wrenched away from him. To think of his friends, his comrades, debased in the way he’d been today, their bodies used and abused and their every physical detail catalogued and on display, made him want to vomit.

"You really are just perfect." Roche traced the lines of Enjolras’ cheekbones, pressing a light kiss to one of them. "Oh, I’m so happy to have found you."

Enjolras shuddered, trying not to pull away. Where there was life, there was hope – at some point his captors would leave a door unguarded, or a blade within his reach. Escape or death, he wouldn’t remain trapped forever. Let them think him a pretty portrait, all the better that they underestimate him. He would protect his men, and he would do everything he could to ruin these bastards’ plans.


End file.
